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Messages - Sylvia Kate Whitwell

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E L S E W H E R E   C H I L D

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Sylvia Kate Whitwell

Gender: Female

Age: 15

Bloodline:
Muggleborn (respectively), possible Half-Blood

Parents/Guardians (Are they currently played characters?):
Edward and Jocelyn Whitwell (NPC father and mother) & Nick Whitwell (NPC brother/legal guardian)

Residence:
Northern Quarter, Manchester, United Kingdom

Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (for example: the daycare)?
No.

Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
No.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
None.

Biography: (100 words minimum.)
Sylvia Kate Whitwell was born in the unusually quiet early morning hours of March 4th, 1943, in a duplex style townhouse, in the Northern Quarter of Manchester, to Edward and Jocelyn Whitwell respectively. Non-respectively, her biological father was a doctor who treated her mother for “hysteria” in the earlier years of the War. In truth, the so-called hysteria was borne of stress between the war which left the Whitwell family (then only compiled of Edward, Jocelyn, and their son Nick) in financial ruin with the rest of the United Kingdom as Edward joined the great fight, and Jocelyn was left to raise a son alone in a shattering neighbourhood. It was upon his discharge from the military that Sylvia was born, making the family of three into four, and leaving Edward quietly loathing the girl with the unspoken knowledge that she was the product of an affair.

With the war having ended worldwide, Sylvia learned to fight these inner battles outwardly, and hope for peace, within the family at the very least, quickly died. Squabbles over football fouls quickly escalated to black eyes and bruised knuckles, and the years went on, Sylvia became a shadow of the rough-edged Edward Whitwell, who grew up in much of the same and violent way, though she bore no physical resemblance to the man she called Dad. 

But seven  years later, hope was born in the form of Elizabeth Whitwell, and with Sylvia showing progressively “worsening” signs of magic, she was left at an unusual impasse in her young life: to embrace this foreign part of herself, magic centuries old allegedly and unknowingly in her blood, or simply fall into line as the middle and unwanted child, separated by seven years on either side, of a broken up family. Finally, her acceptance to Hogwarts further solidified her “black sheep” status within her family.

Roleplay:
Reply as your character to the following:

Godric Park.

Overhead, the sky was a crisp blue, for once clear of the ever-pervasive spongy clouds and rain. The sun was a lemony-yellow presence, high in the Eastern sky, and in front of it zipped three broomsticks in a straight line, or something very like one. One... two..... three... the boys passed, their shouts of excitement echoing as they chased the snitch, a tiny shimmer reflecting the sunlight.

Far below was another, much smaller broomstick.

It trugged along the ground, hugging close to it like a sluggish choo choo train and occasionally shuttering in protest. This was because said stick was currently being occupied by a very small girl who was tugging upward on the front of it with all her might, trying to coax it into doing what it had been expressly designed NOT to do.

"John, I said wait up!" The tiny girl squealed, giving the broomstick another tug.

Begrudgingly, it drifted upward a foot, and then sank, depositing the troublesome girl safely on the ground. Janey Hurst was not pleased. In a huff, she hopped off the toy safety broom, grabbing it firmly and thrusting it handle first into the turf.

Her brother was such a beast. He NEVER let her play! She folded her arms, seething blue eyes fixing on another figure nearby.  "You!" She barked, much more sharply than she meant to.

"...Do you want to play?"

Roleplay Response:
Sylvia Kate Whitwell would have liked very much not to be bothered by a little girl too strongly resembling her younger sister, thank you very much. As it was, she seemed to somehow attract the attention of small children, despite her rough-edged appearance: scabbed knees peeked through tears in her trousers, fingers flexed -- left hand slightly swollen with some previous disagreement -- against battered knuckles, and a slowly healing and now yellowed bruise shadowed one eye, only barely hidden beneath unkempt hair. In short, she very much looked like the sort of teenager mothers warned their children to stay away from.

And yet, here she was, somehow always becoming mother duck to those left behind; how many children in her own neighbourhood often came crying to her when they were treated unfairly during a game of street rugby or football? Or when they simply needed somebody to hold their hand? But then, she had begun to wonder that perhaps her rough and unkempt appearance aided to that attraction: she looked too much like somebody awaiting a reason to fight, or to jump to somebody’s need. And though her heart shone privately with a small hint of gold (she just couldn’t help fighting for the underdog, after all), at least that was invisible to any onlooker.

Children, though, it seemed had a knack for seeking out that battered and rusty heart of gold and so, they fell at Sylvia Kate’s knees, begging for rescue or redemption, the latter being something Sylvia herself was in constant quest for.

In any case, she complied, though not without brash and obvious annoyance, as if the girl was interrupting something important. Really, it was the outburst from the girl, and that barking demand, that sneaked itself easily into the rusty bits of Sylvia’s heart. The girl suddenly transformed from a mimicry of her little sister and quickly became Sylvia herself to the young and hardened witch. She softened, slightly. Underdogs had to stick together.

So she allowed herself a smile -- half of one, at least; lopsided and lazy as the girl who wore it -- and stood from where she’d sat on the sprawling lawn, a quiet audience of the smaller underdog. She cracked her knuckles in some absent show of toughness, and replied in a demanding bark of her own. “Keep up, then, pipsqueak.” She hesitated thoughtfully, before finally reaching out the hand that was still swollen with the telltale signs of a fight, a punch landed too hard; but the outreach was gentler in nature, this time, though the accompanying words were not. “But leave that godforsaken thing behind,” she sneered.

God, she hated brooms.

OTHER
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